


We'll Figure It Out

by hpjk_addict



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Magical Birth, Mpreg, Mpreg Dean, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 19:48:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11904972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hpjk_addict/pseuds/hpjk_addict
Summary: Dean goes through the birthing ritual with Sam by his side; includes symbols drawn in their joined blood on Dean's belly, some screaming and some magic; it also involves a kiss and some angst.





	We'll Figure It Out

**Author's Note:**

> READ THESE FIRST:
> 
> No Happy Ending In Sight: Sam and Dean are hit by a spell that compels them to act upon their desire for each other. Dean ends up pregnant. Sam leaves. (http://archiveofourown.org/works/10862832)
> 
> We Carry On: Dean is magically pregnant and alone, looking for a spell or a ritual to help him give birth. Sam returns. (http://archiveofourown.org/works/11231979)

A thick layer of dust rose upwards as soon as their duffel bags hit the floor. A half-crumbling building of an abandoned church with most of its roof and windows gone was such a familiar sight it almost felt like home. Sam strode across the grime-covered floor, its boards shuddering and creaking under his boots, looking about himself with a purpose as he measured the length and the width of the dilapidated hall.

“Here,” he said at last, looking back at Dean and pointing at what appeared to be the centre of the room. “Lie down on your back right here.” He looked up at a large patch of dark sky with an occasional pulsating light of a star visible through the hole in the roof and frowned. Dean hadn’t moved, looking almost transfixed at his brother, all brusque, business-like and hot. Dean shook his head; now was really not the time…

“Doing it rough today, Sammy?” he asked with a smirk as he moved to the spot Sam had indicated.

Sam scowled at him and went back to get his duffel bag. “Lie down, Dean,” he said wearily. “We don’t have much time.”

Dean sighed but did as he was told; Sam was right. He took off his jacket and put it down before lying on top of it, something crunching suspiciously beneath his back with every move that he made. Dean made a face. He looked up, trying to concentrate on the sight of a ghostly crescent of the young moon, so fine it looked almost transparent, gleaming above him. The birthing ritual, according to the witch, had to be done on hallowed grounds on the first night of a young moon. So here they were…

Dean felt jittery; lowering his eyes he was struck by the way his belly rounded and rose upwards in a weird imitation of an armadillo's armour shell, stretching thin the black, threadbare cotton of his shirt and making him feel extremely self-conscious next to Sam. ‘Great. I look like a freaking mutant turtle without the teenage and the ninja part,’ he grumbled to himself before looking upwards again, goose bumps covering his arms as a sudden gust of wind sneaked through one of the broken windows and swept out through a large crack in the door, leaving behind an echo of its haunting whistle. Dean continued to shiver even when the air settled into clammy stillness around him and wondered if it was because of the lingering chill or his growing nerves. Even his teeth began to chatter and he had to clamp his jaws tight before the embarrassing noise he was making attracted Sam's attention.

He hoped with fervent desperation that the ritual would work and that he would survive the whole thing and would look like his old self again; provided, of course, that the witch hadn't lied to them about it - but witches couldn't be trusted and that was that, so the whole thing was kind of touch and go as they were operating on her say so alone. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done about her even if she had lied, seeing as how they ganked her (after a prolonged argument during which Sam finally convinced Dean not to) when she tried to cast a spell on them that would have made them forget ever meeting her and consequently learning all about those ritual killings that she had committed.

Dean started when Sam's form – appearing even more elongated now than usual from his position on the floor - suddenly loomed over him, a perpetual frown on his face and a knife in his hand. He knelt next to his older brother, grunting as his knees hit a patch of grimy, creaky, crunchy floor. Dean wordlessly stretched out one of his hands, barely flinching when Sam made a deep incision across the palm and began to squeeze his brother's blood into a bowl. The ritual required a larger amount than usual. Sam proceeded to do the same with his own hand, mixing their blood together, while Dean hastily wrapped a piece of cloth around his bleeding cut. Clenching his hand into a tight fist, he hissed under his breath, gritting his teeth and inhaling mildew-scented air through his nose.

Well, it could have been a lot worse. He was grateful that no bones or rabbits were required for the ritual to work. On the other hand, he didn't mind giving away some of his own blood. He knew that some other ingredients, connected with birth and new life and all that crap, were involved. But that was up Sam's street, so Dean let him deal with it. Dean's part was to lie there and look - well - not exactly pretty - but - yeah. In any case, he had done the most difficult part - he had actually carried a new human being (hopefully, it was a human being - it's not like they could do an ultrasound to check) inside his body to full term - surely he deserved a bit of a down time. Not that it would last long. Unfortunately. But their life has never been a picnic and something told him that the arrival of the baby would bring with it a shitload of problems they had never encountered before. In the meantime, Dean was determined to take what rest he could.

When Sam had mixed their blood with the rest of the ingredients (some of them giving off a sweet heavy flowery smell that was frankly quite nauseating as far as Dean was concerned), he began to trace the sigils from his notebook onto the rotten floorboards all around Dean (who felt like some sort of a sacrificial lamb) with his long, nimble fingers, muttering some mumbo-jumbo hoodoo crap as he did so, with a look of utmost concentration on his face. Dean was watching him with intensity that made his eyes burn. But there was something almost calming about following the rapid but fluid way his brother moved through the motions he had done a thousand times before; every gesture so familiar, so crucial; a two-fold crease in the dip between his eyebrows so endearing. Dean looked away, feeling the telltale prickle of tears. Crap. The last thing he needed was for Sam to discover his newfound ability to produce spectacular waterworks out of his eyes.

But it was huge. It was so much beyond him. So much beyond what he could handle without breaking down at some point. He just couldn't wrap his mind around it. Dean's breath hitched as the full impact of what he and his brother were about to do hit him - they were about to bring a new life into this world. A world full of monsters. A world where their child would never be safe. A world where their child would be different. A world where it would be considered an abomination if the truth ever became known. Dean felt sick at the very thought. He wanted to wrap his arms around himself, to curl into a ball, to shield this yet unborn entity from the world around. For a split second he was convinced that the baby was safest where it was right now and almost called out for Sam to put the brakes on the whole stupid ritual - until the rational part of his brain caught up with him and he shook himself out of his funk. He needed to protect his child at all costs. Of course. But not like that. He couldn't actually carry the kid inside himself for the rest of his life.

Dean got so distracted it was only when he felt Sam tugging at the hem of his shirt, pushing it upwards, that he snapped back to the present and immediately swatted his brother's hand away.

“Hey! What the hell, Sam?!” he yelled. “Get your hands off!”

Sam looked taken aback but let go. “Dean, I have to put the symbols on your stomach for the spell to work. Remember?” he said calmly, looking confused.

“Oh. Right.”

Dean lowered his eyes, his eyelashes touching his flushed cheeks, before grabbing the shirt and roughly pushing it back down.

“Dean? Is everything alright?” Sam sounded half-concerned, half-irritated.

Dean nodded. “Yeah.” That didn't come out right. He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he repeated gruffly; “everything's fine. It's just - I mean - maybe - I should - you know - ” he gestured to his belly, while looking upwards at the new moon above him, taking deep calming breaths as he tried hard not to hyperventilate “ - er - put the symbols myself?”

He could practically hear Sam’s eyebrows jump upwards. Dean felt ridiculous for being such a baby about pulling his shirt up but also extremely self-conscious, knowing that Sam would be looking at his belly – in extremely close proximity. They hadn’t really done or talked about anything of the kind after their reunion, kind of too busy on the task at hand, so there was that unresolved issue of intimacy and seeing each other naked in an entirely different context. Dean didn’t think that looking like a mutant turtle did him any favours.

“Dean,” said Sam. Dean could tell that he was trying to be patient there but an exasperated sigh let out slowly through his nose gave him away. “We talked about it. You know as well as I do what has to be done.”

Dean tried not to squirm under his brother’s gaze.

“I just don't see why I can't do it. Why do you have to do it?” he asked stubbornly.

Sam sniffed.

“Dean, what is this about?”

Dean didn't answer but pushed his shirt even lower.

“Dean? Dean, come on! Look at me.”

Feeling compelled despite himself by the order in his voice, Dean looked at his brother, his expression belligerent. “What do you want?” he snarled, his arms crossing over his belly of their own accord.

“What do I - ?” Sam stared incredulously at him. “Dean! We're on a tight schedule here. I don't know what your problem is but we have to hurry if you want to - ” he stuttered to a halt “ - dammit, Dean! Just get your shit together and let me do my part, alright?”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, you've already done your part,” he muttered. “Aced it, man.”

Sam let out a frustrated sigh, shook his head and raked the hand that wasn’t covered in blood through his floppy hair.

“What's wrong?” he asked again, looking pleadingly at Dean. “Dude, explain it to me.”

Dean groaned when Sam used the big guns - those freaking puppy dog eyes of his.

“So not fair, Sammy,” he whined. “Fine!” He relented at last. “I don't want you to see me like this,” he huffed. “Happy?”

Sam blinked, completely nonplussed.

“Like what?” he ventured to ask at long last.

“Sammy,” growled Dean.

“What? Dean - what? I don't get it. Like what? I am looking at you right now. I am seeing you just as you are. What seems to be the problem?”

“I don't know, Sam! How about you tell me? I don't want you to look at me again and turn away in disgust. I haven't forgotten, Sam... I haven't forgotten how you wouldn't look at me anymore when I started showing... “

Dean choked on his own words. But it hurt. It hurt so damn much.

“Dean...” Sam shook his head before dropping it onto Dean's belly - a perfect image of contrition. “I didn't look away in disgust with you - I was disgusted with myself - with what I made you do - with what I made you become.”

“You wouldn't meet my eye...”

“I didn't want to see how much you hated me.”

“I could never hate you, Sammy.”

Sam rubbed his cheek against Dean's belly.

“Will you let me put the symbols now?”

Dean nodded. “We kinda running out of time here, man,” he said, all business-like.

Sam snorted.

Dean leaned his head back against the floor, squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a breath when Sam began to trace the hoodoo symbols across his stomach with their joined blood, muttering the same mumbo-jumbo as before. Dean tried to suppress a shiver. This was so not how he wanted Sam to touch him for the very first time since that fateful night. His eyes flew open when he heard Sam chuckle, his breath a warm puff against his exposed belly.

“What?” grunted Dean, looking suspiciously at him.

Sam shook his head.

“Dean, you need to relax, man. I'm not carving you open with a knife, you know.”

“Shut up.”

“Breathe at least. What's the point of going through with the ritual if you are a second away from exploding?”

“Are you done?”

Sam suddenly pecked him on the forehead, his expression almost delirious.

“Yep.”

“What the hell, dude?”

Dean's eyes bulged out of their sockets. Sam grinned. Dean glared at him before looking down at his stomach, studying the symbols. They looked identical to the sigils painted on the floor with the exception of their position that seemed to be reversed. Dean looked closer at them. Then it hit him: if put together the symbols on the floor and on his belly would fit like matching pieces of a puzzle.

“What are they supposed to do exactly?” he asked, eyeing them warily.

Sam followed Dean's gaze.

“From what I understand they must form a sort of passage for the baby to - well - pass through. That's as much detail as I can give you.” Sam shrugged. “It's not like it has ever been done before.”

Dean nodded, taking a deep breath, feeling on edge.

“I guess we'll find out soon enough,” he muttered, tightening his jaw against the onslaught of fear, feeling a muscle twitch.

His fear must have shown on his face despite his best effort to keep it in check, though, because Sam's hand suddenly cupped his cheek as he said, “Hey, Dean, hey - don't worry, OK? It's gonna be fine. You're not actually going to push it out of you or anything. It's a magical ritual so the magic will take care of it. The sigils are supposed to serve as its conduit.”

Dean took a deep shuddering breath, leaning ever so slightly into his brother’s touch.

“I feel like a freaking Harry Potter,” he said and instantly gagged. “Blegh! I think I just threw up in my mouth. What time is it?”

“Almost midnight,” replied Sam, his voice low and tense. Despite his words of reassurance he looked worried, his eyes fixed on Dean.

Suddenly Dean grabbed his upper-arm in a vice-like grip.

“Dean - what the hell?” yelped Sam.

“Don't leave,” hissed Dean urgently.

Sam looked at him as though he had lost his mind.

“What are you talking about? I'm not leaving. We're in the middle of something here.”

Dean shook his head. “I don't mean now, you moron,” he growled. “I mean later - when crap happens and things get tough and all that. Don't leave. Don't run away.”

“I won't,” said Sam.

Perhaps too quickly for Dean to believe him.

Sam pursed his lips. “I mean it, Dean. I won't leave. I swear. I'm done running.”

Dean just looked at him, unimpressed, his eyes slightly narrowed. Sam held his gaze steadily, desperately needing his brother to believe him, hoping that Dean would see that he wasn't lying. Finally, Dean nodded. Sam exhaled. Then, elated, leaned over and pressed their lips together. Dean gasped at the unexpected touch and Sam, using the opportunity, pushed forward, claiming his brother's mouth in a searing kiss. Dean moaned as their tongues began to clash - pulling, pushing, curling, sucking, devouring. Dean gripped the back of Sam's neck with one hand and tangled the other in Sam's slightly damp hair, his slippery fingers scrabbling, grasping long strands as though they were a lifeline, tugging with enough force to pull them out by the roots. Sam snarled and bit down on his lower lip before lapping at his brother's mouth with broad strokes of his tongue.

A sudden hissing sound forced them to pull apart. The sigils on the floor were glowing, sprouting tentacle-like tendrils, slithering and connecting; the dark red of the blood burning bright, leaving black scorch marks, turning from wine red to the colour of caked blood to burnished copper to blinding gold - trapping them inside a circle. Golden cords shot upwards next, writhing and spitting like angry snakes, seeking each other, their heads lashing out like whips, intertwining, weaving into a pattern - forming a wall. The wall continued to rise higher and higher until they found themselves inside an egg-shaped golden cocoon with an opening - like a trapdoor - right above their heads.

Dean screamed. The symbols on his abdomen began to burn and bleed, forming a similar circle to the one surrounding them - then shooting long thin spikes of golden light upwards. Dean felt as though he was being carved open, each new spike resounding through his body like a vicious stab of a knife. Gritting his teeth and breathing harshly through his nose - after all, he'd had worse - he watched as more and more spikes appeared from the symbols, moulding themselves into a vertical tunnel, its walls gold and impenetrable. Finally, it connected with the opening of the cocoon. The pain was building up, blinding Dean. The next moment he felt as though his insides were being simultaneously crushed, squeezed and sucked out of him.

He thought he heard Sam yell his name but it was hard to tell through the church-bell-loud ringing in his ears. Dean saw white. Someone began to cry. He must have blacked out for a moment because the next things he saw - blurry and unfocused - was a tiny curled baby-shaped form rising upwards along the tunnel pushed forward by some invisible force. As soon as it appeared above the cocoon, the opening closed right beneath it while the walls of the cocoon lifted, parted, shrank, and then closed around the baby like giant flower petals, forming a twirly knot at the top. It landed on Dean's flat and scarred belly with a muffled _flop_. Dean hadn't even noticed when it stopped bleeding.

“Fuck, Sammy...” he said in a hoarse whisper, his voice shaking and breaking uncontrollably; “it's a bundle. It's a freaking bundle of freaking joy. Look...”

He stared at Sam who looked as stunned as he felt.

“I don't believe it... I - fucking - don’t - wait - do you hear it?”

A soft sniffling sound was coming from inside the bundle. Two pairs of shaking hands began to untie the knot. Dean cursed. “I can't get a fucking grip,” he growled under his breath.

“Stop tugging,” muttered Sam, “you’re making it worse. Just hold it. Dean, stop it, I said. Let me.”

Finally, the petals fell away, revealing to their wonder-struck gaze a tiny squirming pinkish baby.

“Why does it look so pissed?” asked Dean in a high-pitched voice. “Is it normal? Do babies normally look pissed when they are born?”

“It doesn't look pissed, Dean,” said Sam. “It's just very - er - wrinkly.”

“Are you sure it’s not pissed?”

But before Sam could reply, the baby, its eyes still closed, scrunched its face and wailed.

“Crap.” Dean looked helplessly at Sam. “I don't know what to do.”

“We'll figure it out,” said Sam, looking terrified.


End file.
